


topics in a gossip column

by parishilton



Category: Keeping Up with the Kardashians RPF
Genre: F/M, Pseudo-Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-31 23:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3997573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parishilton/pseuds/parishilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he wants to bury his head between her thighs and thinks she would smell only of suntan lotion, doesn’t want to admit that kourtney’s smell of baby powder and kale juice hasn’t inspired his libido much lately, not that she would let him fuck her even if he was inspired to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	topics in a gossip column

**Author's Note:**

> tyler, the creator / "slater"

seeing kylie with tyga makes scott long for the days of seeing jaden in a music video rapping  _baby you should try and drive slow_  in his drawstring sweatshirt and with a dusting of hair above his lip, only a few months after kylie’s second car accident, this time in her shiny new range rover in san fernando valley.  ~~~~

scott lays out in the sun with kendall and kylie at his and kourtney’s house in calabasas and photobombs kylie’s vines. he ducks his head into the frame obnoxiously, full beard tickling the tops of kendall and kylie’s heads, making them burst into laughter.

if he closes his eyes and listens to the feminine lilt to their voices, they are fifteen and thirteen again, kendall with acne blooming over her forehead, putting together a binder full of pictures of herself to convince her mother to let her model. scott remembers kylie being asked by khloe if she's ever had the sex talk and kylie demonstrating how tampons worked so kendall wouldn't be afraid. 

if he closes his eyes, they are sixteen and fourteen again, kendall is sending bruce off to pick up her birth control at the pharmacy and kylie is hiring scott to be her and kendall’s manager because she wants to break out into the industry like her four older sisters. 

now, kylie is seventeen and has her own hair extension line, her own teen vogue cover shoot, her own two point seven million dollar house, and her own twenty-five year old rapper boyfriend, who everyone in the music industry seems to hate, from drake to nicki minaj to tyler, the creator, but it wasn't always this way. 

* * *

 "jaden is really cool," kylie offers one day. the implied _cooler than you_ scott hears in his head makes him snort aloud. kylie throws one leg over the other, one bare foot rubbing up and down her shin. she's fifteen. this is before the lip fillers and before she cared if her hair looked mangy and unwashed. she would walk around with plaid men's shirts tied around her waist and was a fan of muscle tees, high-waisted denim shorts, and yeezus sweatshirts. 

"he's a cute kid," scott shrugs, then looks back down at his phone. his gold watch glimmers in the sun that's filtering through the windows of his and kourtney's house, and it should for fifty thousand dollars. 

kylie sighs heavily, tapping her black and white patterned acrylic nails on the table. "i mean, he's not really a kid." 

scott looks up, eyebrows cinched. "isn't he, like, twelve?" 

"he's fourteen," kylie corrects. 

scott laughs. "so, you're a cougar now?" 

"ugh, grow up." kylie moves her fingernails down to the fringed hem of her cut-off shorts, picking at the strings. 

scott pretends he's scrolling through twitter on his phone, but he really has camera on and is using it to stare idly at kylie's tanned thighs. 

* * *

there's something so strange and sitcom about all the girls coming over whenever they want, without ever calling first. for the first few years he was dating kourtney, he thought he would never get over how much they all pried, but now he likes living in the pocket of a group of protective people. he wasn't born into this family, but he's been a part of it for so long that he can no longer stand being alone in a room for more than an hour. 

he drives kourtney crazy sometimes, just following her around the house, especially after his parents have died. he has khloe on speed dial and probably calls her twice a day, though she's officially listed as _koko_ in his phone. he starts trying to invite rob out to places, _any_ places, just so he has an excuse not to be alone. scott misses his trips with rob to vegas when they’d cuddle in hotel beds with porn playing off rob’s laptop, misses how rob used to call every day just to ask _“what’s up, dickie?”_ and scott would boastfully reply, _“getting my dick wet”,_ with no thought for how weird it was of him to be telling rob about his sex life with rob’s oldest sister. 

everybody starts avoiding scott when his parents die, except kylie. he wakes up most mornings alone in bed, with kourtney already gone out with khloe somewhere. he wakes up most mornings with the same texts from kylie. _how r u?_ then when he hadn't answered after twenty minutes,  _SCOTT???_

 _what,_ he answers, thumbs moving over the screen of his iphone. 

_come pick me up let's go shopping_

scott wants to say no. he needs to stop relying on other people to make him happy, especially his sixteen year old sister-in-law. 

 _give me 20_ he types.

* * *

kylie is not dating will smith's kid son anymore. or, maybe never was. when scott was in high school, people said _hooking up_ too, but then it had meant _we go on group dates to the movies,_ not _we fool around in my bedroom whenever my mom's not home._

kylie doesn't _do_ relationships and that confuses scott. scott has always been a relationship type of guy. he likes being married and having kids more than he thought he ever would.  

"i don't think i'll have kids," kylie says one day, her back to scott as she stares into her own reflection in a mirror, re-applying a mac lip liner. 

"why not?" scott asks, surprised. 

she shrugs. "our family will already be so big between your kids and kim's." 

scott grins. "what does kris think about this?" 

"she thinks that i'll change my mind if i spend more time with mason and penelope." kylie laughs and sits back down on the white leather sofa next to scott, the bottom of her high heel accidentally swiping scott's ankle. 

"so kris is the one sending you over here every day?" he asks, snorting. "to recondition your brain?" 

kylie shakes her head. "no, i just like hanging out with you." 

scott is in way over his head. 

he thinks it's a hero worship thing at first. like, when young girls have crushes on their history teachers or soccer coaches or hot babysitters. he almost relishes the idea that he could have some level of authority over kylie, like a makeshift third parent, or maybe a makeshift brother to add to the ones she already has. 

scott often thinks about what direction his life may have taken him if he had stayed in new york, dividing time between clubs and his parents' place in the hamptons, spending as much time with them through his twenties as he could and not ever having met kourtney, but it’s not something he thinks about with an ache for his days of boozing and fucking anonymously anymore. there is a scared little boy inside of him who misses his parents, who longs for kourtney to be his substitute mother, because his is dead and gone. 

but kourtney has two children to raise and soon there will be three. scott had his kids young, _too_ young, and he grows a full beard to rebel against his own youth. he wants to be married already. he wants to be sleeping in the same bed as kourtney every night, but kourtney doesn’t want that. 

kylie laughs every solitary time scott’s beard drags over her shoulder and neck when he photobombs her and kendall outside of his and kourt's eight million dollar calabasas mansion. when she moves out of her parents’ house, will kylie still come over to lay out in the sun with him every day? scott craves the normalcy. 

* * *

_vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram. vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram._

two million followers on vine, eight million followers on twitter, twenty million followers on instagram. 

online articles with titles like _four hundred fifty-one selfies and counting_. online articles with titles like _has she had lip injections?_ online articles with titles like _angry model gives scott disick and kylie jenner the finger during a show_. 

scott is not so sure he sees kylie holed up in calabasas for the rest of her life, some ten minutes from him and kourtney, in the same gated community. it’s shock he feels when he sees formerly always homesick kendall towing her louis vuitton luggage off to the airport. kylie who was the free spirit who was supposed to travel the world, kendall who was supposed to sit at home playing frisbee with brody and his rottweilers, each now living how scott expected the other to live. 

kourtney and khloe keep fucking off to new york together, khloe still mourning her marriage, and kourtney mourning her once stretch mark-less skin. scott doesn’t want to be back in new york because it reminds him of his parents, so he stays in calabasas. kourt takes penelope away on her hip, telling scott in her adorably nasally voice that she’ll call him when they get to the hotel.

scott is left to his own devices, dragging mason off to barney’s with him, holding his little hand with all the fear he possesses being responsible for another life. at night he doesn’t bother calling rob anymore, rob is a hermit now, and scott can’t take rob’s misery when he’s missing kourtney. 

ten years later and he’s part of this family, fucking finally, but it’s fractured. kris finally looks him in his eye over dinner and khloe hasn’t forgotten his birthday in years, but it’s too late. 

it’s become the kardashians versus the jenners and scott feels like he belongs in neither group. kendall sticks by bruce and brody, driving out to malibu to surf and to tan, and that's only when she's not walking in a chanel or marc jacobs show, and kris is managing kylie, and they want kylie to come out with a clothing line like kim did. 

when bruce moves out to malibu, kylie tells scott she never sees her own dad anymore. scott doesn’t pick up the phone to beg bruce to take him golfing anymore either. the days of _“what’s up, bruiser?”_ are long gone. he can’t imagine what it’s like for kylie to not see her dad. scott looks at his little mason and feels his heart breaking. the kids are their last hope of a functional, happy family. mason, penelope, north. the future. 

at night scott scrolls through his instagram feed, and _oh_ , kylie is in her mirror again in a cleavage-baring dress in her mother's foyer with it’s black and white tiled floor. he looks to his bedside table and the framed picture there of himself and kourtney and jerks off to neither kylie’s nor kourtney’s picture. 

* * *

kylie wants to take pictures with scott nearly every day. she’s insatiable. _vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram._ kylie always types _lord disick_ , but calls him scott when it's the two of them alone in a room, no matter who is in the next room over. 

“you have to build your brand,” kylie says, “being a lord is, like, your signature thing.” 

scott pumps his fist in the air. “fuck yeah, it is.” 

“you should write your memoir...with a foreword from kris jenner,” kylie says, “mom could get you stamped with oprah's book club sticker.” then, her phone vibrates and she looks down into her lap again.

_vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram._

scott remembers the handful of days when he was technically  _kylie’s_ manager. now she’s the adult and he’s the child, forever trying to tug someone closer to prevent them from leaving, while loudly maintaining to everyone within earshot, camera crew and all, that he can’t fucking stand these people and doesn’t care if they like him. 

sometimes scott looks at kylie and he sees a melting pot of kardashian genes. kim’s competitiveness, khloe’s pension for dirty jokes, kourtney’s penetrating glare. their respect and love is everything to him and when he’s alone it feels like he has one hundred phantom limbs. 

he wakes up in the morning, some name beginning with a _k_ on the tip of his tongue. he doesn’t know what he’s trying to spit out, what name he’s about to call out for, doesn’t know who he’s reaching out for under the covers. kim, kourtney, khloe, kendall, kylie. _k, k, k, k, k._

* * *

one bright mid-morning, scott gets a text from kylie. _i’m coming over_ , it reads. no preamble, no pussyfooting, no making sure scott doesn’t mind. he supposes kourtney thinks he needs a babysitter even to this day, maybe called kylie to suggest this so he doesn’t sneak off to vegas like he used to some ten years ago, as if he had even entertained the idea.  

“what’s up, lord?” kylie jokingly calls out when she bangs open the front door, neiman markus heels clacking all along the hallway. 

scott hears _“what’s up, dickie?”_ in his head, and he misses rob, but he doesn’t miss vegas. kylie rounds the corner into the kitchen, wearing a two-piece black bathing suit with a towel bunched up between her arm and her side, and scott is exactly where he wants to be. he suppresses the urge to reply, _“getting my dick wet.”_

"hey, kiddo," scott slips out easily as he pulls his black new york yankees cap over his head, just as easily as it had been to call her that when she was a child. 

kylie looks good without her false lashes and lip liner, but scott knows better than to say this. her nails looks sharp enough to claw his fucking eyes out and he doesn’t totally believe that she wouldn’t if he tried to tell her how to dress or what to put on her face. she’s a lot like a caged tiger, young and always on the defensive, and scott remembers when he too was like this. it’s part of the reason why he makes himself so accessible to her now. 

he wants to bury his head between her thighs and thinks she would smell only of suntan lotion, doesn’t want to admit that kourtney’s smell of baby powder and kale juice hasn’t inspired his libido much lately, not that she would let him fuck her even if he _was_ inspired to. 

“i forgot my suntan lotion,” kylie gripes, always one second from a meltdown of such proportion that the only way to end it would be with scott calling khloe to come over and sort out her little protege. 

scott volunteers himself to go check the bathroom cabinet for one of kourtney’s two dozen assorted self-tanning oils and suntan lotions ranging from spf-15 to spf-45. 

when kylie collapses on the couch to splay her legs out and squeeze lotion onto them, scott is distinctly reminded of being infatuated with her legs outstretched over his lap in the limo on the trip back from the runway show where he’d gotten tipsy and rowdy in the front row beside kendall and kylie, the show where a model had flipped he and kylie off for goofing around, though mainly it was scott who was drinking and acting out. limos were a soft spot for scott after growing up in new york city and taking one to school every day for years. he’d wanted to take her then and there, with champagne on his breath, and kendall sitting beside them. 

she was sixteen then and dating jaden, a kid who scott admittedly loved, and he had actually gone on a double date with jaden, kylie, and kourtney more than once. now, she was between men the same way she was between adolescence and adulthood. scott wanted to be between her legs, which were stuck in skintight red leather pants, to match the red matte lipstick on her mouth that scott imagined getting stained all over his own neck. 

“it’s runny,” kylie complains, “is it expired?” the lotion runs from between her fingers and all the way down her arm and scott knows if one droplet touches the couch, kourtney will do one of two things: pile up all his clothes and fling them outside the upstairs window, or call kris and have her put plastic on all the furniture. 

it takes little convincing on scott’s part to get kylie to let him finish putting the suntan lotion on her legs. she was the youngest of all the girls and was practically raised in hair and nail salons, beauty parlors and spas. scott imagines she wants _this_ , this thing that scott wants, and that's why she's always finding ways to throw her legs over his lap. then again, she does this with rob, so it might be a fluke. 

scott runs his hands under her thighs knowing she won't need suntan lotion there. when it becomes clear he's spent the most amount of time possible spreading all of it evenly over her skin, he knows he has to stop, but he can't. he watches her scrolling through her instagram feed on her phone, his hands now planted firmly on the tops her thighs. 

"is there anything you _won't_  document on instagram?" he grins, flashing an enormous smile. he personally only uses it to post throwbacks of him and kourtney, back when they were a couple that still slept in the same bed, and sometimes he uses it to take selfies holding products he's being paid to sponsor. 

kylie's eyes dart up from the phone and she looks to his hands on her thighs and back up to his face. "dare me to post a picture of this?" 

"hell no," scott says. he's thinking about the implications of such a photo - a shot of only scott's hands on her bare skin, _fuck_ , bare skin all the way up to her hip exposed in her swimsuit. maybe the average person wouldn't know it was his hands, but kourtney would. so would the rest of the family, for that matter. 

kylie doesn't drink kale juice, she doesn't go to the spa to get enemas, and if she gets knocked up one day, she won't ever consider having a water birth. scott is so attracted to individuality, that's why he liked kourtney in the first place, yet now every woman in los angelos was like kourtney. hell, even kylie looked up to kourtney, spent hours on tumblr reblogging paparazzi shots of her older sisters. 

"why are you wearing a hat inside?" kylie snides, reaching over to swipe it. 

scott catches her arm, grinning. "you'll date guys who wear dresses, but think wearing a hat indoors is unacceptable?" 

"you _wish_ you could pull off a dress," kylie says, sticking scott's cap over her head. "how's this look? snapchat worthy?" 

scott scans her cleavage and how she looks wearing some article of his clothing, suddenly frustrated that he's allowed to look, _always_ to look, but never touch. "thank fuck kourtney doesn't do all this shit to show off." 

kylie glares. "maybe if she did, you would pay more attention to her." 

"you want your audience of one to go somewhere else for entertainment?" scott wants to call her bluff. 

"no," kylie says, "i need you to take a picture of me in the pool later." she sticks her tongue out. 

he's allowed to look, _always_ to look, but never to touch. he sighs loudly. "alright, give me the fucking phone, let's do it now and get it over with." 

kylie shoots off the couch and poses in front of scott, standing between the white sofa and the coffee table. she starts to tie her towel around her waist like she's insecure about her weight and scott wants to rip it off and tell her she has no reason to be. the yankees cap is still on her head and scott rolls his eyes and takes one picture as she poses with one leg stuck out in front of the other to make her seem taller. 

"you're a regular kendall jenner," scott says, "now, can we go swimming?" 

she twists her foot in her heels trying to reach down and slap scott and starts tumbling down towards him. he grabs her arms and lets her regain her balance by sitting on top of him. her shrieking laughter fills the house and scott feels his eyes brimming up with tears from the sight of her almost falling backwards on the coffee table. 

"if you had fucked up that table," scott tries to say between laughs, "kourtney would fucking _kill_ you." 

kylie stares at him for a moment, her face suddenly going flat and emotionless. scott is still laughing when she leans in and ends up kissing more of his beard than his mouth. it's a millisecond of contact and then she's pulling back already, so scott lifts his back away from the couch and crowds her personal space with one hand on the back of her head, fingers grazing the back of the hat of his she's still wearing. 

he buries his face in her shoulder, licking up the side of her neck and expecting to taste sweat after she’d walked under the blistering sun, though she tastes sweet instead. he becomes aware, very suddenly, of her towel coming unknotted from her waist and the material preventing him from feeling her in his lap. she lets him take it off with much less hindrance than he had expected. she's so particular about when you are allowed to see her without things - without fake lashes, without fake hair, without her spray tan - that scott expected her to put up a fight about the towel coming off. 

instead, she rides his thigh for a few minutes, bare thighs and thin bathing suit bottoms rocking against his shorts, while scott tries to figure out what she’d drank earlier today. coffee, taken black, or close to it. she must have gone to lunch with kris. her hands slip up the back of his shirt and she's gently scratching his skin with those sharp nails that scott can imagine leaving claw marks. the few times a year he sleeps with kourtney, it's not nearly as exciting as this, and he's not even inside kylie. 

“oh, man,” scott groans. 

kylie brings her hands around scott to rake her acrylic nails gently over scott’s jaw. scott is jewish, but it feels like his whole body is awakening again after a decade, like being baptized. there is a guilt-ridden moment here beneath the lust, wondering where mason is. of course he's with kim for the weekend. scott tenses slightly when he thinks of this, but then kylie digs her nails in at his jaw and scott groans and decides to fuck her. 

she's louder than kourtney ever is, but then kourtney never rode him at full speed on their living room couch with the blinds open, fully visible in front of the windows if the gardener had come that day. her hands mostly shake from the momentum, not being able to land properly on his shoulders, and scott is hard as iron from her bouncing up and down onto his cock with his baseball hat on. 

scott doesn’t stop. he bucks up into her again and again, hips snapping up involuntarily, too fast and too hard after so many months since he’s last had sex with kourtney. he sees kylie balling her fists up, bunching up the fabric of his navy lacoste polo, and scratching him sharply when he can’t contain his enthusiasm. he feels like a new man, fertile and insatiable. he wants, almost brutishly, to fill her with everything he has, but he has to pull out and jack off onto her thighs, away from the couch or else he'll catch hell for it, because kylie probably isn't on the pill. neither was kourtney, she doesn't _believe_ in it anymore. it almost wasn’t even cheating, kylie looking almost the same age kourtney had when he had started dating her. 

something kourtney doesn't love is being eaten out, so scott knows an opportunity when he sees one. kylie is oversensitive from the sex and falls backwards onto the couch with her legs splayed out and bathing suit bottoms caught at her knees. she starts laughing when he squints and bends his head down, his way of asking if she was good with that. her heels meet and cross at scott's shoulders, tightening her thighs to keep scott's head in place, though this was a daydream of an experience that scott wanted to last. 

the pit of his day are those minutes alone and wild pacing his house waiting impatiently for kylie to get there, and the peak of his day is that millisecond before kylie comes, when she grits out _scott, scott, scott_. each pronunciation of his name from her mouth sounds otherworldly, an ego boost from the gods compared to kourtney's quiet breaths of indifference, or worse, sometimes sounds of pain as she often admitted.  

* * *

kylie wakes up in the morning, phone in hand with eyes still bleary. _vine, snapchat, twitter, instagram._  scott imagines one false lash hanging off her eyeball, though she didn't come over wearing any.  _  
_

scott wakes up in the morning, thinking. _mason, penelope, north, the little one inside kourtney’s stomach._  

fuck, it’s been so long since scott has shared a bed with kourtney, not on a regular basis since before mason was born five years ago. he peeks up from the pillow, rolls over on his side so he can lay his head on kylie’s chest, and inhales the smell of suntan lotion from the day before. 

“you won’t tell them?” kylie asks, because she’s the responsible one in this scenario, almost that it’s her place to apologize for crossing a line, or twenty. “bible?” 

scott holds out his pinkie. “bible,” he says, feeling like a real member of the family. 

the phone rings.  


End file.
